


Ease

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 23:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: He isn't afraid anymore.





	Ease

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: this is coming from a very personal place for me and is the product of three years' loneliness and isolation and just generally being in a bad way; let's say I could really relate to lonely!Sherlock fics which in turn, made me even sadder. I don't usually write pure Sherlock/John as I like to experiment with other scenarios, usually genderswapped-John, but I wrote this on Halloween as a kind of exercise for myself and decided to share it with the fandom. I've struggled in this fandom writerly-wise for a very long time, which has proven very (and almost stupidly) distressing considering how much I love the show (well, at least the first two series, hah) and also very confusing. So - here we are. It's not perfect, but I hope it's enough. As per, I don't own Sherlock and this contains spoilers for Series 4.

* * *

 

He isn’t afraid anymore.

Not of the darkness; not when John and Rosie are there to part it for him, to meet him halfway, to join him in the shadows if need be and keep him company with their unique brand of noise and bickering and a cup of tea or two.

He used to wander around this house like a ghost, as Mrs Hudson so quaintly put it, but he can’t deny she’s not _right._ Staring at walls that seemed a bland, stale colour, somehow, like cold, stony tea. Traipsing up and down the stairs, feeling the ticking of the clock stretch his face, his muscles until the only thing that was left to do was go back to bed, try and rid himself of the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Not anymore. Not for a long time, now.

He feels John’s hands, rubbing up and down his arms and he leans back into the touch for a moment, welcome as it is, still a little unused to this affection.

(‘I can’t, I won’t,’ John had shaken his head into his hands the day Culverton Smith was locked away, sprawled over the bottom step of 221b, reeking of alcohol and shame, pulling his hands away from Sherlock’s when the detective, still sore with the lingering reminders of John’s fists, tried to comfort him. ‘I can’t do that again, Sherlock, I can’t, I _can’t.’)_

John props his chin on his shoulder, making a soft, questioning sound, and peers over at the ground below, the signs of life, the people of Baker Street going out to celebrate Halloween. Down below, there is a badly-zombified cheerleader, a really rather poor Guy Fawkes, a – ghost? Giant, walking teabag maybe? – and a gentleman dressed, rather inelegantly, as a pirate.

‘Probably going to a party.’ He hums and rests his lips on Sherlock’s shirt, holding him close, his hands firm but gentle on his shoulders. He can see. Of course he can.

‘It’s okay to miss Victor,’ he reassures, kissing the spot close to his collar; not attempting to be suggestive or even diverting, simply comforting. ‘It’s okay to think about him, love. It’s really alright.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Sherlock replies, but it lacks his usual bite; instead his voice sounds as deep as water and far away. Trickling in another direction, carrying him off down streams with two young pirates at the end, throwing stones into water, kicking the surf with borrowed boots, sword-fighting with no intent to hurt.

 _Stay with me,_ John thinks and rests his cheek against his back, nuzzles slightly with his cheek. Thinks of the real horrors under the surface, the scars on Sherlock’s skin, remnants of all the man has put himself through to try and keep everyone around him safe with very little in return. Left alone here with his thoughts at night and only a skull for company.

‘Let’s stay in tonight,’ he suggests, rubbing his cheek against the shirt, deliberately loud, letting his voice carry through the quiet space and into Sherlock’s head, reaching with both hands into the door of the Mind Palace to pull his friend out. ‘Let’s… let’s just stay in here, the three of us and let’s just watch _Danger Mouse_ or something, eh? I think there’s a Halloween special, actually…’

He bites his lip at how much Sherlock instantly perks up at the words ‘Danger Mouse Halloween special’ – it’s incredibly childish, he knows, for two grown men to watch the remake of an 80s cartoon classic, but as it turns out, it’s a shared passion that’s left over from childhood: John in his second-hand school-clothes and trying to ignore the sound of his parents’ rowing and Sherlock, alone at the family home, devoid of memories of both best friend and little sister and unable to recollect why he felt so empty. 

He doesn’t have to feel empty anymore. He doesn’t have to simply exist, anymore.

‘I like that idea,’ Sherlock breathes, his eyes fluttering shut in the reflection of the glass and John nods, kisses the shirt covering his back several more times, leans against him almost faint with relief.

He steps back a little as the detective turns around in his arms and just like that, they’re kissing properly, sweet and gentle and both tasting a little like chocolate, leftover from the emergency stash that Mrs Hudson had brought ‘just in case’ (‘This is England, not America!’ Mycroft had declared, outraged, even as he deftly caught the packet of Maltesers being tossed his way). John puts a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and kisses his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, the tip of his chin, senses more than hears Sherlock’s swallowed sigh, letting his lips wander and trail before he pulls back, takes his hand.

‘Come on,’ he murmurs; takes Sherlock’s hands and leads him to the sofa where Rosie is already sleeping over a pile of toys, completely wiped out from her day of play and blissfully unaware that her constant demands, her shoving another toy into Sherlock’s hands, continues to be the very thing that stopped him toppling over the edge, that left him standing rather than fallen sideways for days on the sofa.

How he loves her for it, every bit as much as he loves her father.

John picks Rosie up carefully in a bridal carry with a faint grunt of ‘h’yep,’ that’s _just_ quiet enough not to wake her; settles down with her in his arms, coaxes Sherlock to sit down next to him. As Sherlock reaches for the controls, John drops his head to rest on his shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, enjoying the softness of Sherlock’s clothes (no matter how expensive they are) and the smell of lavender detergent that Mrs Hudson uses, the faintest trace of deodorant and the rich, familiar shampoo that keeps Sherlock’s hair so thick and curly. 

Then Sherlock is wriggling under his arm and John is holding him while hanging onto Rosie, enjoying the sheer sensation, the simplicity, of having his two most favourite people in the world with him, clean and safe and calm, around him.

(He’s managed _not_ to mess this up).

He leans over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s curls, rubs his cheek there. Can’t stop touching tonight, for love nor money – simple contact, anchoring Sherlock, not allowing him to run away with his thoughts, seems to be the order of the evening and he nuzzles into the top of his head, makes shushing sounds. Sherlock’s distress has been growing quietly throughout the day and John won’t allow it.

He won’t leave Sherlock to fend for himself in the darkness anymore.

For his part, Sherlock shuffles a little, presses closer to John’s side. He should feel silly, weak perhaps, a little vulnerable but he can’t help the way his body relaxes in close proximity to John’s, and being able to share Rosie, to play a role in her life, is nothing short of miraculous. Sherlock reaches out at that thought, places his hand over John’s on Rosie’s back, listens to her gentle snoring.

No more wandering. No more fighting in the dark.

He shuts his eyes; _breathes._

*

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, Danger Mouse was remade and it's really good, so of course Sherlock and John watch it in their spare time with Rosie. *thumbs up*


End file.
